He laughed. ‘Then come and take it, witch girl! If you are able!’
‘I come!’ she cried. ‘Be patient – I come!’
She was more cautious now, her eyes pinned to the shield as he lifted it. She must get in past it somehow. She must draw blood. Closer and closer, Terrwyn galloped. She would wait for Ironfist’s sidestep, then she would lean low over her horse’s neck and swing her sword down and around, slashing beneath the shield, opening up his belly and spilling his guts!
But Ironfist did not sidestep this time. He stood unmoving in Terrwyn’s path, his feet braced, the white shield up to his ice-blue eye.
Too late, Branwen realized what was happening. At the last moment she yanked on the reins, trying to turn Terrwyn aside. But her brave steed’s momentum carried him forward on to the white shield.
Ironfist withstood the charge as a hale old forest oak might withstand the futile butting of a young roe deer. Terrwyn was brought to a halt by the shield’s power, and as he tumbled sideways, his hooves flailing and his mouth open wide in a scream of pain, Branwen was flung out of the saddle.
Ironfist slashed upwards at her as she was hurled through the air. The blow went wild, but she felt the point of his blade cut her upper arm, quick and shallow, as she was tossed on the wind.
She came crashing to the ground among a pile of the dead. For a few moments she was too stunned even to draw breath. Pain flooded her like black water. She could hardly close her fingers around her sword hilt. She could hardly move for the agony.
But a warrior’s instinct took over. She turned painfully on to her side and thence to her hands and knees, still holding her shield on her arm, still gripping her sword.
Terrwyn was lying still, maybe killed by the impact. Ironfist was stamping towards her through the ranks of the dead.
‘What’s this?’ he howled. ‘Still awake, pretty maiden? Then let me sing you to sleep!’ He came at her faster now, the white shield up, his sword spinning in his hand.
Branwen forced herself on to her feet.
She tried to remember what Gavan ap Huw had taught her in the forest outside Doeth Palas when she had been green and impetuous and foolish. She tried to recall all that she had learned since, in a hundred battles, a hundred victories.
She dared not let Ironfist come upon her flat-footed. She had to bring the fight to him. Weight for weight, he could wear her down and crush her, even without the aid of the white shield. She had to rely on speed and agility.
She sprang forward, focused on the coming conflict, blotting out pain and fear, ignoring the snow that flew into her face, paying no attention to the slither of blood and gore under her feet or the congregation of dead eyes that stared up at her.
The white shield came up to Ironfist’s eye as she darted forward. She brought her weight down on her left foot, feigning a blow that drew his shield instinctively to block her sword. But she changed her balance, coming in close, striking around his shield to the right, hoping to bite into flesh.
But he was too skilled a fighter to be caught out so easily. He twisted into her blow, cracking down on her sword with his shield and almost cutting her with a sharp swing of his sword to her neck. She sprang back out of danger, her shield to her eyes, the upper rim angled outwards, her sword arm lifted and bent so the sword ran along her back, ready for her to unleash all the power of her arm and shoulder when the moment was right.
‘Good! Good!’ crowed Ironfist, his single eye glinting. ‘There’s little to savour in a swift victory! Fight well, witch girl! Fight for your life!’
He threw himself at her, his sword bearing down on to her left shoulder. But she ducked, fending the blow off with her shield and bringing her own blade up to sweep his aside. His weight crashed against her, shield to shield, and she stumbled back. Again his sword flew to her shoulder, again she blocked it, dancing back and to one side, trying to sneak in under his shield arm, her aching leg muscles taut as she bobbed and wove, stabbing and withdrawing, stabbing and withdrawing.
She moved to the left then jinked to the right, bouncing on her feet, drawing him first one way and then the other, waiting for the moment when she could angle her sword in past his defences and score a hit. But always the white shield blocked her, always his sword whistled close to her head and she was forced to leap back to survive.
He loomed over her, swinging his sword in a great arc. She crouched low, so that his blow swept above her head. She stabbed at his feet and he pushed the shield down to keep her sword off. Quick as lightning she sprang up again, leaping into the air and bringing her sword down at an angle into his neck.
Roaring in anger, he thrust the shield up to buffet her sword away, but not before she had drawn blood. She pranced backwards, grinning, drops of blood flying from the edge of her blade.
But it was not a deep wound, and it enraged rather than hurt him.
She heard Gavan ap Huw’s voice in her head.
Do not let your emotions rule you. The blood may be hot, but the mind must be always cool.
Branwen smiled grimly as the furious Saxon came at her, swinging wildly in his pain and ire, wasting energy as she skipped away from him, darting to the left and right as he stormed forward like a wounded bull.
But his rage did not last. Ironfist’s attack became more measured, more wise. He struck from above and she deflected his sword with a twist of her wrist. Again and again he smote down on her, like a blacksmith forging iron. The power of his blows was gradually bleeding the strength out of her and she knew she could not afford to trade blows for much longer.
She lowered her sword, bringing her shield up instead to protect her shoulder. The edge of his sword bit deep into her shield while she swung her arm in a long low arc and snagged his ankle with her sword. She cursed that she had not struck a better blow – she had hoped to take his feet out from under him.
But now she was in danger – his sword was wedged in the rim of her shield and she could not pull free. She dropped to one knee, aiming for his legs again, but he was ready for her now. He brought his shield down hard, driving her sword into the ground. With a roar, he lifted the shield and hammered it down a second time – and now her sword broke halfway to the hilt.
And as she stumbled to her knees, the hilt slipping from her fingers, the white shield was brought up quick and vicious into her face. She was lifted to her feet by the power of his blow, her neck stretching, her head snapping back, pain filling her skull.
Her feet slipped from under her as her mind spun. She pivoted sideways, her left arm still trapped by the leather grips of her shield and the broken shield still snagged on Ironfist’s sword.
She fell heavily, jarring her elbow and hip, spitting blood from the blow to her face. Her arm slid free of her shield. She saw a flare of white from the corner of her eye as Ironfist hammered the shield down on to her head and shoulder, beating her to the ground.
She could not think for the pain. She could not get up for the fatigue that wracked her body. All she could see was a red fog dotted with fleeting flecks of white snow.
Ironfist’s foot came down on her chest, crushing her to the ground. She flailed with her arms, praying to feel a fallen weapon under her scrabbling fingers. Praying for a miracle.
She stared upwards with swimming eyes. Ironfist towered over her. He leaned to the right and beat her shield on the ground until his sword came free. She felt his foot grinding down on her breastbone, making it impossible for her to breathe. She saw him lift his sword above her face, the point aiming down towards her eyes.
A thousand images of her life wheeled in front of her eyes – the good and the bad and the wonderful and the terrible – changing rapidly as the blood pounded in her temples. And echoing the beat of her blood was a word, growing out of the confusion, filling her head.
Caliburn. Caliburn. Caliburn.
Pulsing in her mind, louder and louder as the world began to drift away.
… call for Caliburn when all is lost …
> She had no breath in her body. She could not call – she could not even speak. But her lips formed the word and she let it out silently into the snowbound world.
‘… Caliburn …’
‘What’s this?’ growled Ironfist, leaning closer. ‘Do you beg for mercy, witch girl? I cannot hear you.’
‘… Caliburn …’
The pressure lifted a little from her chest and she was able to gulp in air at last.
She stared up into the Saxon general’s scarred face. ‘Caliburn!’ she gasped. ‘Caliburn!’
He stared at her for a moment, then he lifted his sword arm again. ‘Enough of this,’ he said. ‘Let’s put an end to you!’
But before his blow could fall, a blast of thunder rocked the world, almost shaking him off his feet. And as he tottered and flailed for balance, a shaft of lightning came flashing down with a fearsome scream, striking the ground only a few paces from where Branwen lay, exploding in a ball of blinding light.
When the flare of the lightning bolt was gone, a sword jutted out of the scorched ground. A sword that shone like silver, a sword with a hilt that glittered with gold. A sword that radiated light like the noonday sun.
In a daze, she got to her feet and stepped over to the sword. Its blade was sunken into stone. She took hold of the hilt, vaguely aware of Ironfist’s voice shouting behind her.
She tightened her grip on the sword and pulled it out of the stone, the shimmering blade ringing like bells as it came free.
She turned, holding the sword up – holding Caliburn like a blade of pure light. Ironfist threw himself at her, the white shield up, his sword swinging.
Effortlessly, Branwen swung the sword. It clove through Ironfist’s descending blade as though through a willow wand, sending sparks flying. Effortlessly, the sword danced over the rim of the white shield. Effortlessly it took Herewulf Ironfist’s head from his neck.
The great body crashed down at Branwen’s feet, the white shield flying from the limp arm, rising into the air, spinning like a wheel.
She lifted her left arm and the white shield came to her.
And as she stared down at the dead body of her old enemy, the blizzard ceased and the storm clouds lifted and the midday sun shone down on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
All around Branwen, stunned and frightened warriors were picking themselves up and staggering ankle deep through the impossible snow while horses stood shivering, or galloped away over the battlefield with their reins flying.
The dead and wounded were mantled in the fresh snow, but already blood was staining the whiteness and in places it had become pools of red slush from which jutted broken spears and shield rims and clawing dead fingers.
Above the field of carnage, the sky was blue. To the north a tail of dark cloud flicked for a moment as it fell below the horizon.
Branwen walked forward in a daze, the shield of Cudyll Bach on her left arm, the sword Caliburn in her right fist. She stood over the fallen head of Herewulf Ironfist, one time Thain of Winwaed, commander of King Oswald’s armies.
She heard voices around her. Angry voices.
‘Awyrigende waelisc galdere!’
‘Astyrfan awyrigende!’
She glanced around herself, seeing Saxon warriors moving towards her from all sides. She slung her shield over her back and stooped. She grasped Ironfist’s head by the hair and raised it high. She turned slowly in a circle, showing the bloody trophy to the advancing warriors – showing them their dead general.
They hesitated, watching her with eyes filled with hate and fear.
‘I am Branwen of the Shining Ones!’ she howled. ‘I am the shaman girl of the waelisc! I am the witch girl of Pengwern! Fly from here if you value your lives!’
She did not know if any of them understood her words – but she knew they would respond to the deadly and ruthless tone in her voice.
The ring of Saxons wavered as she stood defying them. One or two turned and ran. Others followed. Soon they were all running, running hard to the north, throwing down their weapons, slithering and sliding on the snow, trampling the slain in their panic.
And as they ran, Branwen heard war horns blowing from within the walls of Pengwern.
Grimacing with distaste, she released the grisly head, watching dispassionately as the Saxons fled. Like ripples in a lake, the word was spreading across the battlefield. ‘Ironfist is dead! The shaman girl killed him! The witch girl brought the storm down upon us! Run! Run for your lives!’
The whole wide field was alive now with fleeing Saxons. Bands of King Cynon’s warriors pursued them, some on foot, others mounted, whooping and shouting and cutting down any who lagged behind. A troop of riders came bursting from the ruined and charred gateway, and Branwen saw the gallant standard of the king being carried along with them.
The blizzard had doused the flames, and of the evil black raven and the golden boy-god there was no sign. Whether Caradoc had brought Ragnar to his doom, or whether the hellion of the Saxons had escaped, Branwen could not know.
She lifted the marvellous sword up in front of her eyes. There was no blood upon its burnished blade, and as she looked closely she saw her reflection staring back at her from the slender strip of metal, as clear as if she was looking into still water. She gazed mesmerized into her own eyes, hardly recognizing herself – hardly able to believe that she was looking into the face of Branwen ap Griffith.
She heard a snort and the thud of hooves close by. She broke free of the enchantment of the sword and turned as Terrwyn thrust this heavy head against her shoulder. She slipped the sword into her belt and threw her arms around the horse’s wide neck, pressing her face into his coat for a moment of comfort.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she murmured. ‘I thought the whole world was dead.’
She was still pressed up against Terrwyn’s soft hide when other hoofbeats sounded and joyful voices called out to her.
‘You are alive!’
Yes. I am alive. It is strange and I cannot quite believe it – but I am alive!
‘Beyond all hopes, Branwen! Beyond all hope!’
‘And see – the great general is dead!’
Branwen turned, smiling as the Gwyn Braw leaped down from their horses and threw themselves upon her with wild delight. As she embraced them, she saw Rhodri standing slightly apart, smiling, too, but with a deep sadness in his eyes.
‘I knew you would not come to harm,’ said Iwan, his eyes shining as he looked at her. ‘Fate could not be so cruel!’
‘Fate can be cruel enough, Iwan,’ she said, pushing past her friends and going to stand in front of Rhodri. For a brief time they looked silently into one another’s eyes. “I would give my life if it would restore Blodwedd to you,’ she murmured at last, for his ears only. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Can you love me still, Rhodri, after what I did?’
His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. ‘Would I lose my dearest friend as well as my true love?’ he whispered, his voice cracking. ‘No, be sure, Branwen – our lives are bound together a while longer yet.’
‘I called on Caliburn, as you said I should – and it came to me,’ she told him, sliding the silken sword from her belt and showing it to him. ‘Where does it come from, Rhodri? What is it?’
He frowned. ‘I cannot tell you,’ he said. ‘But it is not yours, Branwen. It belongs to another.’
‘Ahh. So this is the sword that Blodwedd spoke of. I thought it was so, but I could not be sure. It belongs to the other Chosen One – the boy. Must I take it to him now? Do you know where I might find him?’
‘All things in their right time,’ said Rhodri, gazing out past her shoulder. ‘The king of Powys comes – you should speak with him, I think.’
Branwen narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, I shall do that, Rhodri! I shall certainly do that!’ She turned, her face tight with anger. Several riders were approaching. Above them flew the king’s standard.
She searc
hed the faces of the mounted warriors, puzzled not to see Cynon among them. Prince Drustan she recognized, and Dagonet ap Wadu, and other captains of Pengwern and warriors of Dyfed, Gwynedd and Gwent. But of the king, she saw no trace.
The horses were reined up and Drustan dismounted. There was blood on his face and his cloak was torn, but he seemed otherwise unhurt.
‘My people quailed when the fireball came blazing across the sky towards us,’ he called, his eyes bright and eager as he strode towards her through the snow. ‘But I saw how it dismayed that great black bird of ill omen. I saw how the demon of the Saxons fled before it! And I knew in my heart that you had returned to us, Princess Branwen.’ He glanced around them. ‘And this unimaginable snowstorm – that was your doing also, I am sure.’ He shook his head. ‘A powerful shaman, you are, Princess. You command formidable sorceries, indeed. I understand now why my father feared you, although I think he was wrong to do so.’
‘What of the king?’ demanded Branwen. ‘Is he afraid to face me, after the treachery he worked upon me?’
Drustan looked solemnly at her. ‘My father is dead,’ he said. ‘He led the first charge from the citadel and was cut down by many Saxon warriors as he fought to prevent them crossing the causeway. Prince Llew is also among the slain, as are Captain Angor and many another brave warrior of Doeth Palas.’ Drustan looked steadily at her. ‘I owe you a blood-debt, Branwen of the Gwyn Braw. You have done nothing but good for us, and we have treated you shamefully.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Be assured that the new king of Powys will ever be your friend, Branwen of the Shining Ones.’
Branwen gazed at him, not quite able to grasp the reality of what he had told her. King Cynon dead? And Llew ap Gelert too? She had always imagined that she and the prince of Bras Mynydd would face one another at sword’s length before the feud between them was ended. But he had been killed, after all, defending the land he had tried to betray. There was at least some strange kind of justice in that.
Her attention was taken from Drustan as Dagonet ap Wadu came forward, bowing his head to her. ‘For my part in your betrayal, I offer you my atonement,’ he said. ‘I was too ready to listen to the whispered words of the prince of Bras Mynydd – as was my king.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘We were wrong to do so.’